Almost three months ago - 75 days as of writing this - we put down my childhood cat, Harvey. We got him when I was 9 years old and he had been a major part of my life since then. I already loved him so much, but in the past few years, he really became my best friend. He would spent most of his time in my room, on my bed, hanging out with me. He loved to sit on my windowsill to watch the birds outside, or just curl up in my lap as I did whatever. Throughout my life, I've always struggled with isolation, but no matter what, Harvey was always there. Even if I had the shittiest day of my life, Harvey would be there, happy to see me and ready to whisk all my bad feelings away. Now, he's just...not. Not on my windowsill. Not in my room. Not anywhere. For the first few weeks after, it almost felt like he was just somewhere else, able to show up whenever. I don't think it really hit me until we got his ashes. I finally realized he was gone. Forever.

Harvey had gone through so much in his life - broken bones, a tumor, complications from surgery - but we don't even know what really got him in the end. All we know is that it was too much. He started declining on May 29, 2025 - I remember the exact date because it was opening night for a show I was in at the time - and just got worse and worse. It was heartbreaking seeing him go through it. He had been such a stubborn little guy all his life, it was surprising seeing him just...give up. We eventually realised he wasn't going to get better, and we had to make one of the hardest decisions someone has to make.

The day we put him down was one of the worst in my life. We all - me, my mum, my sister and her boyfriend, Harvey - got up early and piled into the car and drove to the vet. My memory of being at the vet is pretty fuzzy up until we said goodbye. I just remember a lot of waiting, trying to lighten a mood that was determined to stay dark. When he was ready, we all said our goodbyes, then held him as they put him to sleep. I held his paw as they did it. I remember holding his little paw up on the table, and being on my knees under it, sobbing. I stayed there until my mum pulled me up to look at him. I've heard people describe the dead as looking asleep, but Harvey didn't. He just looked dead. After I gave him one last hug, I walked out of the room, out of the building, and joined my sister and her boyfriend in the parking lot. I remember not being able to walk very quick, like gravity had gotten 10 times stronger, just for me. Once my mum was done with all the things you do after putting down a pet, we all got back in the car and got fast food, 'cause what else were we supposed to do? While getting food, I remembered I was supposed to go into my volunteering job that day to be trained on the cash register, and had to be there in 10 minutes. I made it there and started. It felt so weird, to continue on with my life, as if I hadn't just experienced one of the heaviest moments of my life less than an hour before. I think it might have actually helped, to do something I could focus all of my attention on, learn something new, be around people who didn't know what I had just experienced and didn't treat me any different because of it. After I was done my training, I walked myself home, and after that it gets fuzzy again. I think I cried more? I honestly don't remember. It would've been such a small fraction of the tears I've cried over him, that I'm not sure if it even matters.

A few times now, during a session, my counsellor will ask me how I feel about Harvey being gone. If I feel any better, any worse, or just different. I never know what to tell him. The closest would probably be that I just feel different, but that doesn't seem to describe it well enough. I guess the feeling is just more...distant? A year or so ago, I heard someone use the anology of the ball and the box to describe their grief, and I didn't realize how accurate it feels until now. If you've never heard of the ball and the box, here's my best explanation:

Inside you there is a box, and inside that box there is a ball, and that ball is grief. Also inside the box is a button, that when pushed, causes pain. The ball is constantly bouncing around inside of the box. When grief starts, the ball is huge, constantly hitting the sides of the box, pushing the button, causing large amounts of pain. As time goes on, the button doesn't go away, but the ball gets smaller. Sometimes it'll hit that button, and it'll hurt again, but it will happen less and less until most of the time, the ball doesn't even go near the button.

It still hurts. But as time goes on, it hurts less.